


Chrysanthemum

by Star_Nymph



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Affection, Affectionate Fenris, Flowers, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-28
Updated: 2016-11-28
Packaged: 2018-09-02 22:07:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8685190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Star_Nymph/pseuds/Star_Nymph
Summary: “Lady Elegant told me something interesting once. Did you know flowers having meanings?"





	

**Author's Note:**

> Annnd here's another sappy oneshot after I had a dream of Fenris getting a flower in his hair and laughing. I was practicing writing dialogue so I hope you don't mind how much of this is just that (I would have added more action but I liked how it came out without it)--and the rest is a try at writing from Fenris' POV. Here's hoping I'm getting better at him! 
> 
> I hope you like teeth rotting sweetness because that's what you're getting.
> 
> Once again, I hope you like the fic and if you have any comments or helpful tips please feel free to write something. I'll definitely appreciate the feedback!
> 
> Also: The fic mentions canon Alistair/Female Cousland but not enough to justify a tag.

“I’ve heard once the King of Ferelden gave the Queen a rose to prove his love and she still wears it in her hair. Is that true?”

“H-uh? Perhaps? Never met the bunch myself but I’ve heard from some that they’re both the overtly romantic types.”

“Aren’t _you_?”

“Maybe. I haven’t found a reason yet to be. Give me a bit; I’m sure I’ll be spouting poetry and showering them with flowers for every day of the week.”

“Pity the poor fool.”

“Why so curious? The giddy details of young love blooming in the heat of battle get that cynical heart of yours beating fast?”

“Ha, hardly. An intriguing note is all it is. Why give her something that will die within a day? If they’re on the run as they said they were, would it not be a waste of time and space?”

“No time for sentimental trinkets while escaping, then? Not even the many hearts you no doubt collected?”

“I’m afraid my pack could not fit them, no.”

“Hm. And here I assumed you had infinity pockets hidden in your armor. Silly me. Well, I cannot say for sure what the King was thinking, but if I were to guess from experience then– _hm_. When I was a child, our family was on the run–as you might recall–”

“From the templars, yes. It must have been hard for your parents. You children were young. Too young to be running.”

“They dealt with it, I suppose. We all did. For half my life it was the norm to settle for a month, pack up, and search for a safer place once more–all while in a constant fog of paranoia. Never knew when one day a templar would just _know_ one of us was a mage and it would all be over. There was a strange comfort in that—either all or nothing. But I’m side tracking. My parents, yes? Everyday my father and I would travel around the region–village to village, market to market, cavern to cavern. We both worked as farm hands typically but some people didn’t like random strangers coming in and doing work on their land so sometimes we did tasks–searching for plants, clearing out some foxes or wolves. One time Father decided it was smart to take on a request to chase away a family of bears and didn’t even hesitant to use me–ten years old and _fat_ as a mabari–as running bait! I swear the beating my mother gav–”

“Side tracking, Hawke. You have a point, don’t you?”

“Ah, yes. Um. What was I–oh right. Right! So, we traveled. You see interesting things when you travel and my father, if nothing else, was an expert on plant life. What herbs were the best for rubbing on scratches, what goes into potions, what clears a sore throat. He knew it all. Every time we were out, he had to stop in a bush to collect something–I _hated_ it. It got tangled up with his money and notes because he always had to stuff it in without looking. It all got ruined–save for one thing which he always carried. A single flower. It was different every time; whatever struck his fancy that day. Tulips. Roses. Violets. Lilies—those were her favorites. Crystal grace. A sunflower once. He’d twirl it around between his fingers, humming under his breath like a buffoon the entire back track home. Then he’d wait until he was done telling her all about the days’ work, good or bad, before he slid the flower behind her ear–

“I imagine the sunflower took some work.”

“Actually, Bethany stole that one away but mother loved it nonetheless. She loved all of them. Even blistering mad about the day or one of us acting up, she’d crack a smile when she got that flower. Giggle like a maiden on her first courtship and Father would blush about over it, giddy and high on affection for the night. Happiest moments for them during those years, I think.”

“Which they deserved. You haven’t explained ‘why’, however. If they are so in love, why a gift at all? Why risk the time? Is the trust of its existence not enough?”

“’Course it was, but the gift is not to prove anything, Fenris. It’s…it’s a symbol, I guess. Something to show her that he was thinking of her–that it made him happy seeing that, therefore he wanted her to be happy. Someone in the world cares enough about you to give you something just because they want you to smile. In times of joy or worry, a gift such as that–well, would it not make you happy to receive such a thing?”

“…I do not know. Rarely have I been given gifts and none for the reason you state. I am not numb to the concept, I simply…do not know what that would be like. To risk the safety of one’s self just for the smile of another; it sounds…pleasant. But out of my reach.”

“It doesn’t have to be. Perhaps someday you’ll know exactly why.”

“…yes, it’s possible. Someday.”

\--

That conversation was three years ago.

A discussion over wine and books by the hearth. What little time had gone by yet Fenris saw nothing but another life. It had, after all, taken place before the famed night that marked their relationship for the worst until this year—and at time, flowers hadn’t been a heavy subject for Hawke.

Lilies.

Fenris remembered how the house reeked of them after Leandra’s death. Hawke had thrown them all into the fire, still in the vase, but he couldn’t get rid of the smell. It lingered around the corners, out of Leandra’s room as if it was haunting her eldest child. Perhaps it had been the perfume she wore, Fenris reasoned—he offered, if only to feel useful, to find the offending smell but Hawke had hung onto him, begging him not disturb anything she had once touched.

Her bedroom door remained locked and as far as Fenris knew, it still was.

Hawke hated lilies now. Flowers, the elf wasn’t sure of but lilies seemed to twist the mage’s good nature into something unsightly. The way he looked at them when they passed by a bush told a thousand words.

Often if he saw Hawke staring too long, he’d call for him. A distraction from the black hatred eating the man’s heart. It was all Fenris knew to give.

The elf thought about all that now—the old conversation and the hatred of lilies—as he dressed in the middle of Hawke’s sunbathed room. He had been lazy this morning, sated from the last night of soft touches, arching backs, and whispered love, and so when Hawke had risen to deal with his normal routine, Fenris has stayed caught in the sheets, the sun his new lover.

Love and the promise of a home had turned a former slave spoiled quickly. Fenris enjoyed that.

As he pulled his tunic over his arms and shoulders, Fenris caught a glimpse of brilliant red. He paused, lifting his left hand up. The ragged red cloth he had tied around his wrist so long ago hung snuggly and undisturbed.

Ah, so not his favor.

Curious.

The red hue nagged at him from the corner of his eye until Fenris had to look.

His sword leaned against the corner of the wall as he had left it last night, but on the hilt something was tied. A red flower he did not know the name was knotted around the handle with a red rope. Like his favor, the dozens of skinny petals were a beautiful shade of red that, when caught in the sun light, turned breathing takingly vivid.

Fenris arched an eyebrow, a small smile playing on his lips, as he strode over and plucked the flower. He twirled it between his rough fingers, gentling feeling the velvety petals as he brought it to his nose.

Earthy, musty, it smelt of fresh dirt after the rain had fallen. It was a refreshing scent.

The cleansing reek, the shocking red, the smooths petals packed so tightly that it made this unknown flower look bulky.

It certainly did remind him of _someone_.

Fenris’ released a silent huff of air and clicked his tongue as he picked up his glance from the flower and went to the door. Down stairs he could hear the incessive sound of hard scribbling, followed by a colorful swear. The elf chuckled as he descended the staircase. He nodded at Bodahn as he went through the archway. His presence, though not wholly permeant, was a natural and unquestioned thing these days. It had been one time that the dwarf had attempted to call him ‘Master Fenris’ but he had steadfastly put that to bed with a glare and an uncomfortable grunt. The dwarf had caught on quickly.

Despite the high sun outside, the study was—as it was naturally—cast in the dark and only warmed by the bright glow from the fireplace. Fenris found Hawke’s hunched shadow at his desk, his large back bent as his hands scrubbed furiously through his choppy, thick black hair.

Papers flooded the top of the desk, falling this way and that as Hawke read over them with what looked to be growing aggravation.

Letters. The names _Meredith_ and _Orsino_ came to mind quickly enough. Fenris frowned, leaning against the archway with his arms crossed.

The weights were doubled every day. They broke and caved his lover’s back, the world demanding his blood to keep their own from spilling. And Fenris—useless by Hawke’s side but tempted even so to shatter his enemies with his sword—could offer nothing.

Nothing but another distraction.

“A flower secured to a sword. An ironic statement, one would say.”

His voice caught the man off guard and watched with an amused look as Hawke scrambled his hands over paper and ink, standing abruptly from the table. “Fenris!” His face split into a gleeful grin as if the weights had vanished, his honey-gold eyes peering at the flower hanging from Fenris’ lax hand. “Found my present, did you? I saw it while walking to the Keep this morning. There was a bundle of them; doubt they’ll miss one.”

His joy was contiguous. Fenris felt an overwhelming warmth curl at his toes and dance up to his cheeks. Damn the man’s smiles. Fenris worked not to look too pleased. “Were you not supposed to put it in my hair?”

“While you slept? It would get crushed before you opened your eyes. Besides, I thought you’d appreciate seeing it rather than wearing it.”

Hawke looked so giddy, his brown cheeks flushing and making him into a farmhand in love rather than a champion of the masses.

Fenris’ heart flipped. He swallowed, suppressing what he knew was his own excited feelings. Opting to look away from his lover, the elf brought the flower up to his face and studied it. “It occurs to me I have never come by this species before. Do you know the name?”

“Chrysanthemum. Quite a name, hm?” Hawke’s footsteps were soft as he stepped closer to Fenris. “Lady Elegant told me something interesting once. Did you know flowers having meanings? Arranging them in the bouquet sends different messages.”

Fenris hummed his response. It sounded familiar. A distant memory of Hadriana receiving a nasty bouquet and having a fit came to mind. He peered at Hawke from underneath his eyelashes. “And you know what this means?”

Hawke beamed. “I love.” He reached over and took the hand holding the flower. Raising it to his mouth, Fenris watched as he first kissed the petals of the chrysanthemum and then his knuckles. The warm feeling turned fire hot and engulfed the elf’s entire body, from heel to tip of his ears. Fenris’ mouth went dry, speechless, and dumb all at once as he looked into Hawke’s sweet golden eyes and felt nothing but absolute adoration in his heart.

The question _‘why’_ returned to him. Suddenly he understood the King and the Queen—Malcom and Leandra. Why give such a gift of no value.

This feeling. Everything this moment was—this was why it was done.

Out of the blue, a laugh erupted out of Fenris’ mouth, surprising the both of them. It was a belly deep laugh, one that shook the elf to his core and kept his breath from filling his lungs.

Bliss. He felt nothing but blissful happiness.

He grabbed his stomach and covered his eyes, wet from his mirth, as if trying to contain himself.

Hawke stared at him bewildered and Fenris could do nothing but snort and snicker, perhaps even hiccup in-between like the fool he was, and touch his lover’s cheek as he looked into his eyes again.

“As do _I_.”


End file.
